her personal signature.
Sara smiled as she exited the message. If anyone ever suspected that the woman closer to the president than his own wife was head of a secret organization of women who aided foreign nationals, her career would be over. Yet another reason for her to be discreet.
She quickly read the other message. It was from another sister in the organization, a physicist who lived in Tucson, Arizona. She’d met her a few months ago at their annual convention in New York City where they’d become fast friends.
Hi, Sara, the message read.
If you haven’t already heard, Dr. M’boto insisted on returning to her homeland and was killed as she stepped off the plane. I’m heartsick about it. She believed that the only way to prevent nuclear proliferation in her country was to sacrifice herself, the one scientist in the grip of the government who could make it happen for them. When they killed her, their hopes died as well.
Sara, of course, had heard about Dr. Victoria M’boto’s assassination. And she knew Dr. Katharine Matthews-Grant had done everything in her power to convince Dr. M’boto to remain in Tucson and under the protection of the organization. Sara dreaded the day when she lost one of her charges. She wrote a very sympathetic note to Kate, telling her how sorry she was that Dr. M’boto had seen no other way out of her dilemma.
After she’d replied to Kate’s message she sat at the desk, thinking about her recruitment and initiation into the organization nearly six years ago.
But then her mind went to Billy, her husband of only two years, who had been killed in a car crash while returning from a business trip to Philadelphia. He specialized in entertainment law and represented some of the country’s highest-paid athletes.
At the time Sara was assistant creative director at a large advertising agency. She rarely left work before 7:00 p.m. and that evening when she got home she went straight into the tub for a relaxing soak. It was a Thursday, and she wasn’t expecting Billy back until Friday evening. She planned to cook dinner for him as a welcome-home surprise.
She was the one who got a surprise when, after she came out of the bath and slipped into a plush robe, someone rang the doorbell.
Cautious by nature, she peered through the peephole before calling, “Yes? Who is it?”
“Mrs. Minton?” came a deep male voice.
“Yeah!”
“Mrs. Sara Minton, wife of William Minton?”
Nobody called Billy William. He used to say that that was his father’s name.
Still cautious, she answered, with the emphasis on the junior, “William, Jr.”
“Yes, William, Jr., Mrs. Minton. I’m Detective Aaron Green of NYPD. We’ve been informed by the Pennsylvania Highway Patrol that your husband was involved in a serious car accident.”
Sara quickly opened the door and swung it wide. “What?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
The two police officers stood there, not moving an inch, perhaps waiting until she invited them in. But she had no intention of inviting them in. To invite them in would be acknowledging that they were there on deadly serious business.
“Was he hurt? Is he in the hospital in Philadelphia? He went there on a business trip.” The questions were spilling out of her, fast and furious. She didn’t wait for them to reply. “What hospital? Do you have the name of the doctor I need to speak with?”
“Mrs. Minton,” Detective Green ventured softly. He was a slim man with dark hair and soulful brown eyes that were fairly dripping with sympathy. She didn’t like the look in his eyes.
She looked at his partner instead. She was a brown-eyed blonde who was about the same height as her partner: five-ten. She looked straight into Sara’s eyes with a kind, intense expression that seemed to be pleading with Sara not to lose it. Be strong, sister, it said.
That was when Sara knew they weren’t there to tell her Billy had been injured. They were there to tell her that he was dead. There was no hope in either of their expressions.
She stepped back from the door. Still barefoot, she looked down at her feet and somehow they seemed to be very far away. Afterward, she would realize that she was having a mental episode in which her mind was seeing things in a distorted way.
Panic had seized her brain.
She stumbled backward, her hands clutching the wall for support. Detective Green caught her before she fell. The woman police officer, whose name Sara would later learn was Carla Farrell, acted in concert with her partner. She shut the door, and together they helped Sara to the couch, where they made her sit down. Carla then went into the kitchen, grabbed some paper towels, folded them over several times, and held them under the tap. By the time she returned to the living room, Detective Green had convinced Sara to lie down with her feet raised above her heart. Carla Farrell placed the cool towels on Sara’s forehead, and sat on the floor next to her.
“Just lie there for a few minutes until you come to yourself again, honey,” she said.
Sara concentrated on breathing. For a moment, she had felt as if she was going to lose consciousness. The wooziness had passed but she still felt weak and nauseous.
“Is he dead?” she asked, her voice cracking.
“I’m sorry,” Detective Green said. With downcast eyes, he continued, his tone filled with compassion. “They told us that the driver of the car that hit him fell asleep at the wheel. Witnesses said that by the time they got to your husband, he was already gone.”
“And the driver of the car that hit him?”
“He died from his injuries a few minutes after they got him to the hospital.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say.
They would not leave her side until her friend Frannie Anise rushed over to stay the night. Frannie, a free spirit from Northern California, the thing they found out they had in common within two minutes of meeting each other upon Sara’s arrival in New York City, worked at the United Nations as a tour guide.
Frannie was with her round-the-clock until her parents arrived from Glen Ellen.
Sara seemed to float through the day of the funeral. Her head felt light as if she was on something even though she had declined the tranquilizers her doctor had offered to prescribe for her.
Her parents stayed for two weeks, doting on her. When they prepared to leave, they begged her to go home with them for a while. Sara, however, felt that if she didn’t soon get back into her regular routine, she would lose her mind.
That was a mistake.
Without Billy, her life had lost its flavor.
Sara thought that she had permanently built up her self-esteem when she had been a bullied teenager. She had become a diehard optimist who didn’t allow anyone to bring her down. Life’s challenges didn’t faze her in the least.
But two months after Billy’s death, she was sitting at the breakfast table on Sunday morning, the day she and Billy always spent together, and for the first time in her life she had suicidal thoughts. She looked at the knife in her hand, a bread knife, and wondered just how deeply she would have to cut her wrist in order to bleed out swiftly enough so that no one would be able to save her. She’d read somewhere that people who attempted suicide by slitting their wrists rarely cut deeply enough to reach that vital artery deep down past all the insignificant veins. Slitting your wrist was often messy, but it wasn’t a good way to off yourself.
She found herself wishing she’d allowed her doctor to prescribe those tranquilizers. Pills were probably much more efficient. As she sat there turning the knife over and over, the blade flashing, she caught her reflection in it and saw how desperate she looked, dark circles under her eyes, dry, cracked lips. Utterly hopeless.
She placed the point of the knife against